


Holiday Musings of Third Generation Fëanorian Children

by eonwe_s (SerendipitousSong)



Series: Season's Greetings [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Child Point of View, Gen, Gift Fic, Implied Mpreg, LMAO, Not Christmas Centric, OCs Galore! - Freeform, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, Yule is mentioned but these are meant to be easier to relate to no matter what holiday you celebrate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28283970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerendipitousSong/pseuds/eonwe_s
Summary: Three gift fics for three people, and a secret surprise chapter at the end.1. Gil-Galad is used to getting what he wants, but now he's spending his first winter holiday with his new baby brother, and he learns a few lessons of brotherhood.2. Lómion yearns to be as great as his father, and after hearing a tale of a starlit hero, he draws parallels between the Swordsman and himself.3. Líra has a problem. A huge problem. A problem that is near impossible to solve. She can't run away from it, and her parents don't seem to notice the issue. That problem comes in the form of her annoying baby sister.
Relationships: Background Aredhel/Celegorm, Background OC/Maglor, Background Russingon - Relationship, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Season's Greetings [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581205
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Fey - Nost Russingon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesdeuxcretins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesdeuxcretins/gifts), [ThatFeanorian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatFeanorian/gifts), [NerdsOfAFeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdsOfAFeather/gifts).



> This one's for the girls.
> 
> A simple holiday fic compilation, with additional mystery bonus at the end.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> \--me

“Atto, do we  _ need  _ to go?” Almafinwë Gil-Galad, aged a wizened eleven years, groaned into his cloak, wiping mucus from his nose and staring at it morosely. “Can we leave Tinno behind?”

Findekáno, the father most likely to cave to his demands, sighed, and Gil-Galad tasted victory in the air. “No, Gil. He is still a baby, remember? He cannot look after himself yet.”

Gil frowned. Rarely did Findekáno say  _ no  _ in any way, shape, or form. It was always startling, and Gil stood in stunned silence, watching his Atto rock baby Tinno on his hip. “Nelyo,” he called to his Atya, “be careful with that chest! Curvo’s gifts are in there! They’re fragile!”

“What’s fragile?” Gil-Galad licked experimentally at the mucus, and Tinno copied him, drooling on Findekáno's shoulder. Tinno really was a dumb baby. He only copied Gil-Galad, or grabbed his feet. Nothing too special, and he was sure Grandfather Feanáro and Grandmother Nerdanel wouldn’t care if they left Tinno in his crib this one time.

“Nelyo,” Atto cried again. “Make sure to strap them down tightly!”

Gil-Galad’s Atya turned from the carriage to huff at Atto, big and tall and strong. He really wanted to be just like Atya. “Finno, love, I’ve done this all my life. Or have you always thought Macalaurë was in charge of loading our luggage as children, travelling to Grandfather’s summer homes?” Atya had a silly smile on his face, crooked and watching Atto bounce Tinno up and down. “Come now, my loves! We ought to get going if we wish to make it in time for lunch!”

Gil-Galad hurried forward, leaping into his father’s strong arms to be spun in the air. The rush of air in his ears made him squeal in delight, clinging with handfuls of rich velvet fabrics and silken embroidery. Everything always felt right when he was held by Atya. He was safe, and he could wrap his arms around Atya’s neck and ponder the smooth texture of his hair, different from his springy coils or Atto’s thick braids. If he asked, Atya would carry him high onto his shoulders, and Gil-Galad would look far beyond where even tall Grandmother Nerdanel or Uncle Turukáno could see, watching stars and birds and picking fruit off the trees in their gardens. Gil might almost say he was flying, if he didn’t know Atya’s steady hands held him fast.

With a snuffle, he buried his hands and face into his Atya’s hair. “Atto says we can’t leave Tinno behind,” he whined.

Maitimo, his big and strong, beloved Atya, laughed right into his ear. “Why, Gil-Galad! Of course we cannot leave Tinno! He’s so small, like you were once, and we never once left you in the house, on your own. It’s a poor father who abandons his son when there’s cake to be eaten at Grandfather and Grandmother’s, don’t you think?”

At the mention of cake, Gil perked up. “What sort of cakes, Atya?” Gil allowed himself to be placed within the carriage, feet resting on the top of a crate underneath the seat. “Is Grandmother baking? She makes yummy cakes, Atya!” Hopefully she was! Gil-Galad loved Grandmother Nerdanel’s cakes the most. More even then Grandmother Anairë’s, because Grandmother Nerdanel always made chocolate cakes with fresh strawberry slices and cream when Gil-Galad was visiting.

“Yes, my love. Now sit nicely for me while I check the horses. You’ll be good for Atto,  _ right?” _ Atya raised an eyebrow, but Gil knew better. He could cause a ruckus if he wanted, but he wouldn’t this time, and said so. Atya smiled and kissed his brow. “Good boy.”

With that, Maitimo left Gil sitting primly in the carriage, while Findekáno swung himself up into a seat in ease. Gil loved watching his Atto, even if Tinno was ruining the view. His baby brother burbled when he caught sight of Gil-Galad, and reached for him with a slobber covered hand. The young boy recoiled just as the carriage began to move, throwing him backwards with more force than he expected and causing him to smack his head against the door. His Atto gasped and reached forward frantically.

“Gil-Galad!? Are you alright!? Oh my poor baby!” Atto switched sides, coming to sit beside Gil and gently placing Tinno in a blanket filled basket to free his hands. “Oh my baby boy, you poor thing! Oh, I ought to have a talk with Atya about taking off so abruptly, don’t you think?” Soft hands rubbed at his head soothingly, and Gil smiled to himself as he watched Tinno kick and squirm at having been put down.  _ Finally some attention. _

He scrunched his face up and gave Atto watery eyes and a pouty lip, sniffling a bit of extra effect. “My head, Atto! I hit my head on the door!” When Findekáno moaned about how he was just a baby boy and he’ll be having a talk with Atya, Gil glanced down at his baby brother. Tinno watched him, copying his watery eyes and pouty lip, whimpering and reaching his short arms up. Gil stuck his tongue out and buried his face in his Atto’s chest.

It was going to be a long ride with that nuisance.

  
  
  


After an hour long ride towards the north of Tirion, they’d finally arrived at Grandfather Feanáro’s sprawling home in the country. There were many things that followed, like running up to Grandfather and Grandmother for hugs and kisses, and pouting while they turned from him to give the same to Tinno. Then he was scooped up by Atya and brought inside to wash his hands and face in a pretty blue glass bowl. Atya flicked tiny drops of water at him with a laugh, so small they felt like a mist on Gil-Galad’s cheek. He splashed back. Then, they all sat at a cozy table in a small room with a skylight. Grandfather Feanáro asked for lunch to be served, and Atto sent a worried glance at the servants that appeared with covered dishes. Gil eyed them suspiciously as well.

“Uhm, Feanáro? I don’t mean to be rude, but you remembered Gil-Galad is a picky eater, right?” Atto fidgeted, and Atya moved his giant square hand to hold his shoulder.

Grandfather smiled. “Of course! We’ve got his favorite here.” Grandfather and Grandmother shared a glance that made Gil-Galad even more suspicious, but at the sight of plain grilled chicken and rice, he gasped and cried, “Yay!”

And then he paused, eyeing the rice. It was colorful. It was  _ different. _

“I don’t want it, Atya.”

“It’s your favorite, love! Mmm, rice and chicken! Yummmy!”

“No,” he whined, kicking his feet and crossing his arms petulantly. “I don’t want it!”

Grandmother raised an eyebrow. That was usually a bad sign, and he bowed his head rather than meet her gaze. “Almafinwë,” she said with her heavy voice, watching him with the look that let him know that she would not let him get away with causing any sort of trouble. Or throwing fits. “Grown boys eat their food. Or did you think Atto and Atya grew so tall by eating nothing but cakes and throwing fits?”

He glared at her, and Atya winced. But he pressed on, feeling like he might be able to pout his way into desserts. With a huff, he whirled around and gave his back to grandmother in a display of babyness. Atto gasped and scolded him, but Gil ignored it. “I don’t want it. I want cakes. Now!”

His Atya sighed. “Amil, it’s not so bad. I’m sure the rice is delicious, but Gil is used to plain rice, you see, and--”

“And I don’t want it,” Gil added, still facing a sturdy paneled wall. There was a painting of a beautiful _ nís _ with bright silver eyes and hair. She looked rather like Grandfather, he thought, and like Uncle Tyelkormo. Even Tinno seemed to have the same dainty nose. “I don’t want that rice.”

Grandmother Nerdanel said, in a steady voice that made Gil-Galad uncomfortable, “There will be no cakes for Almafinwë if he does not eat his food. You can be sure of that, Maitimo. I baked my cakes for a growing young boy, not a baby who does not behave for his Grandmother.”

Tinno chose that moment to yell and bounce in Grandfather’s arms. “Ba,” he yelled, watching Gil-Galad. “No!”

“See? Even Tinno doesn’t want that yucky rice!” Gil galad glanced over his shoulder at Grandmother Nerdanel. She was still watching him with a raised eyebrow. Blushing, Gil turned back around. “I won’t eat it!”

There was a long moment of silence. Gil was sure he would get his way. Atto was frowning, but that familiar flash of indulgence leaked from his eyes like a sugary syrup, and Gil-Galad loved it. Atya was rubbing his cheek sheepishly, smiling helplessly at Grandfather, who was shaking his head in disappointment. But then, Grandfather spoke, and his words made Gil’s belly drop.

“I suppose we’ll save the cakes for Tinno. What do you think, Nerdanel?”

She nodded her head, and accepted a plate of delicately sliced chicken and leafy greens. “I concur, Feanáro. Are Telraumë and Macalaurë bringing the girls over tomorrow? Little Numellotë is a good eater. I’m sure she’ll love some cakes after eating all her food.”

Atya frowned. “Atar, Amil, he’s just a boy.”

“You spoil him even more than we do. Have him try his food, at least. Then he can work on earning his cakes back.” Grandmother Nerdanel sniffed and crossed her ankles. “His current behavior is rather rude, Maitimo. Will you allow this to continue?”

Gil-Galad heard his stern Grandfather shift in a shuffle of long, soft robes, still cooing and bouncing Tinno on his knee. “Almafinwë, turning your back on your Grandmother is the height of disrespect. You  _ will  _ turn back around and apologize, do you understand?”

Atya sighed. Surely his beloved father would come to his aid? Or his gentler Atto, who always showers him with attention and gives in to his demands, and even partakes in mischief with him. They would gather him up into their arms, like when he was small, and shush his pouting, his whines, cuddling him close and assuring him that he could do as he pleased. But as he thought that, Gil knew it wouldn’t happen this time. They did those things with stupid baby Tinno, now. They cuddled him, and babied him, and let him crawl around wherever he pleased.

There was a moment where Gil-Galad considered throwing a fit. A massive one. One where he threw himself to the ground and screamed, pointing at the offenders and wailing about how he was wronged, how they were hurting his feelings. In another time, he might have. But Gil-Galad turned slowly to watch Tinno, his baby brother, happily eating the mashed carrots Grandfather fed him. His baby brother was watching him back, smiling and babbling in unknown baby speak that even he couldn’t decipher. Always copying him, even though he was just a baby and really could not do much of anything yet. Would he begin throwing fits if he saw his older brother do so? It was a strange thought.

He turned back to the painting of the silver-haired  _ nís _ . Would her nose scrunch up if she threw a fit? Wait, would she throw a fit at all? She looked like an Amil. Too old to cry about getting her way or not, but her nose looked like Tinno’s and probably would do the same wrinkle if she wept. But she was much too old, Gil-Galad was sure of it. Only babies threw fits.

“Gil-Galad? I know you heard Grandfather Feanáro. Apologize to Grandmother Nerdanel this instant.” Atya? He was scolding him, and Gil-Galad felt a rush of rarely known shame at the sound. “You’re much too old to be behaving this way.”

Only babies threw fits. Gil-Galad let his shoulders, puffed up broadly in arrogance, slump with shame the same way his face had. He wanted Atya to tell him it was okay. He wanted to hear  _ “It’s okay, baby. My little baby boy.” _ But he wasn’t the baby boy. Tinno was. And it felt unfair to an extreme. But Tinno was watching him, eating carrots like a good boy, while Gil-Galad was sitting in silence and making a scene. Slowly, without meeting any of the grown-up’s eyes, he spun on his bottom, facing Grandmother Nerdanel.

“‘M sorry, Grandmother. I’ll eat all my food.” His face burned.

Gentle, rough palmed hands cradled his face and lifted it up. Nerdanel’s sparkling blue eyes gazed into his, but they no longer held that weird emotion that made him fidget and become a bratty child. She was smiling.

“There’s a good lad. Let us show little Tinnufinwë what a growing lad behaves like, hm?" With a gentle pat on his cheek, she passed him a plate of sliced chicken and suspicious rice. "Eat now, little one. You may be growing, but you're still my little Gil, aren't you?"

The endearment brought a smile to his face, and Gil-Galad dug in with abandon. Oh! This rice was delicious! He shoveled more into his mouth eagerly.

Above him, Fëanáro and Nerdanel shared a conspiratorial grin. That vegetable rice was a brilliant idea after all!

  
  
  


Lunch was followed by a walk through the gardens. The center of the estate was opened up, with the main building surrounding an oasis of growing things. Now, however, it was cold and white with snow. Gil-Galad's Uncle Curvo sat on a bench by himself, reading a book with symbols on the front that Gil-Galad couldn't make out. He ran up to his uncle, who didn't even spare him a glance.

"Uncle Curvo! Uncle Curvo!" His Uncle just sighed and closed his book.  _ Not _ the reaction Gil was hoping for.

"Good afternoon, Almafinwë." Uncle's bland silver eyes glittered for a split second. Was he…  _ happy? _

"We're on a walk. You weren't at lunch today. Where is Uncle Ambarussa and Uncle Ambarto? Why are you sitting?" He leaned down to examine the heavy tome, ignoring his Atya and Atto calling after him from far behind. "What are you reading? Are you learning? What are you learning? Why is there a paper sticking out--"

Uncle Curvo snatched the book away, but Gil-Galad had a hold on the small letter. "Almafinwë, that belongs to me. Hand it over." Gil didn't, and held it up to read.

_ "My Beloved Curufinwë--" _

His Uncle snatched it away and stuffed it into his coat, then stood and shook out his cloak. "Enough. Why don't I walk you to your--"

_ PIFF! _

Snow rained on Gil's face, and his Uncle stumbled back, swiping cold fluff off his chest. Atya was laughing and holding another snowball far away. Atto held Tinno, as usual, and the baby was squirming away from a patch of snow where Findekáno dangled him experimentally.

"Ha ha! Are you going to stand there, or can I expect a return attack, little brother," Maitimo called.

Gil looked up to Uncle Curvo. Uncle Curvo looked down to Gil. "What say you, Almafinwë?"

Gil-Galad giggled. "Let's get him!"

Uncle Curvo sent him a wry grin, rare but warm, until it was covered up with another snowy explosion.

While his uncle and fathers began a frosty battle, the young boy ducked away, hoping to escape any strenuous games or snow-covered shenanigans. Tinno was bundled against Grandfather’s chest again. He and Grandmother sat together on a bench, with Grandmother resting her chin against Grandfather’s temple as they watched Gil’s parents and uncle hurl snow across the gardens like children. Gil watched too, fascinated. His two fathers were on opposing teams, with Atto crouched behind a marble statue of Great Grandfather Finwë beside Uncle Curvo, who tossed spray after spray of snow at his Atya. Atya himself was zig-zagging from side to side, giving as good as he got. It was strange, Gil thought, to think about his tall Atya and gentle Atto being children, a long long time ago. Was Uncle Curvo in brighter spirits as a child, or had he always been somewhat grumpy? Had Atya and Atto loved each other already, even as babies who didn’t know anything about love yet? Gil-Galad decided that they must have, because they were a kid like him once, and he already knew love just from watching Atya throw snowballs more softly at Atto, or from seeing Grandfather rub Grandmother’s hands to warm them.

Two sets of sneaky footsteps approached Gil from behind. He began to turn, knowing already who had finally arrived to greet him. Really, it was a travesty that he hadn’t seen them until now! Gil-Galad may have just had some sort of epiphany about his place in the world, but that didn’t mean his two favorite uncles ought to ignore his presence!

“Ah! Look at what I’ve found, brother,” one voice exclaimed. Strong arms wrapped around Gil and lifted him from his hiding spot behind a dead shrub.

“I see! Is that a squirrel you’ve found, brother?” Another voice just like the first chimed in playfully, and two more arms joined the first pair in lifting him and swinging him around. “Or perhaps a large cat?”

Gil-Galad laughed and struggled half-heartedly. “Uncle ‘Russa! Uncle ‘Barto!”

They let him down again, and he felt dizzy. It did not stop him from burying his face into their heavy cloaks and rubbing his mucus on their coats underneath. Without missing a beat, Uncle ‘Barto brought a handkerchief from nowhere and wiped his nose. Uncle ‘Russa grimaced but went on, “Sorry, Gil. We didn’t mean to miss your arrival!”

Uncle ‘Barto shrugged. “We were out. You understand, right?”

Gil-Galad nodded. His two favorite uncles were not actually very similar to him, but they were close enough that they could get along well. Ambarussa and Ambarto preferred to be under the trees like Uncle Tyelko, exploring and hunting, and bringing back shining rocks with slivers of metal or chips of obsidian. Gil liked it better when they stayed inside and showed him their extensive collection of stones, or sneaked into Grandmother Nerdanel’s workshop to play in her watercolors. But seeing them, even though they smelled a bit too much like animals than he would like, Gil felt his still wounded pride begin to mend.

“I understand. Can we play a game now? I want to play a game now.”

His uncles give in to his demands as often as Atto does. They look at each other, then look at him. “Of course,” they say simultaneously. But then something happened that Gil-Galad did  _ not  _ appreciate. “Let us bring Tinno over! I’m sure he misses his trusty older brother, don’t you think?”

“No!” Gil cried, and clung to Uncle ‘Russa’s leg before he could walk towards the bench. “I don’t want to! Tinno’s a baby, he’s not fun!” Uncle ‘Russa just laughed and began walking, dragging young Gil along the ground. “No, no! No Tinno! No Tinno!”

But it was too late. With his fathers both occupied, there was no hope of someone scooping Tinno up and distracting his two tunnel-visioned uncles. Maybe he could garner some pity from Grandfather…

“Atar, can we borrow the baby for a moment? Gil-Galad would like to make snow- _ nérs _ with him!” Uncle ‘Barto sat beside his father and tickled Tinno’s cheek. “Don’t you, Gil?”

Grandmother Nerdanel rolled her eyes but accepted a kiss from Uncle ‘Russa. “And where have you two been, hm? Traipsing about in the snow without gloves or a scarf?” She tugs Ambarussa’s coat closed at the top. “You both have less sense now than when you were babes.”

Beside her, Fëanáro shifted Tinno into Ambarto’s waiting arms. “Be gentle, Telufinwë. And don’t leave him in the snow for too long. And be sure to check on him often, in case he gets too cold. He likes to take off his mittens, so be sure to keep an eye on that. Also--”

Nerdanel cut him off with a nudge. “He’ll be just fine! If you’re  _ that _ worried, go with them!”

Gil, Uncle ‘Russa, and Uncle ‘Barto all gagged when Grandfather lifted her hand to plant a peck on the back. “I’d rather stay next to the one who warms me from the inside out.”

“That makes no sense, but I do rather prefer to sit with you as well, my dear.” Tinno squirmed in Ambarto’s grasp, babbling and tugging at his long red braids. “Go on, now. Enjoy the snow a while. And Almafinwë?” She aimed a stern look at him. “Be kind to the baby.”

He bowed his head, bouncing anxiously on his feet. He did not want to play with a dumb boring baby. His uncles pulled him away before he could respond.

Once they were farther away, on a patio covered in snow, they got to work. First, Gil rolled a snowball in his hands, trying to keep Tinno from eating snow. “It’s not good for you, dummy. Don’t eat it.” Tinno ignored him and grabbed a fistful of it. But Gil-Galad noticed something. Tinno had taken his mitten off and was touching the cold fluff with his bare skin. It was turning red.

“Tinno, put your mitten on.” He didn’t. Tinno ate some snow, sitting beside Gil happily, but as Gil watched, his chubby face began to contort. His hand was very red and stiff. “Tinno, put your mitten on!”

Tinno began to whimper, but Uncle ‘Russa and Uncle ‘Barto were laughing together as they rolled a huge snowball around. It got bigger and bigger, and they laughed louder and louder, flinging snow and totally not noticing Gil or Tinno. On one hand, Gil felt annoyed. Everyone seemed to be ignoring him today! But, on the other hand, he was also the only one watching Tinno, and Tinno couldn’t open his hand. He scooted closer and grabbed his baby brother’s arm.

“Tinno, where’s your mitten?” He looked around, and found it under Tinno’s bottom. “Here it is, you silly baby.” He tried to place it over the curled fist, but it wouldn’t fit. Tinno’s hand was very cold.

_ I have to do everything myself, don’t I? _

Gil-Galad put his snowball down, and called for his fathers. “Atto! Atya! Tinno is frozen!”

While he waited, he took off his own mittens and rubbed his warm hands all over Tinno’s cold one. Atto and Atya were jogging over, still laughing with red noses, covered in snow, but Tinno couldn’t stop whimpering or kicking his feet in pain. As he rubbed, though, he could feel his brother’s hand beginning to wiggle. “Shh, it’s okay Tinno. Don’t cry. Or else your nose is going to get mucus and you’ll wipe it on me.” He examined the little fist, and just as he contemplated sticking it in his mouth to warm it faster, Atto was there, and squatted next to Tinno.

“Tinno! Oh my poor baby! Come here, my love!” Up Tinno went, and then inside with Atto. Gil felt jealousy bubble up, and he turned to his Atya with a stomp.

“Tinno did that on purpose! He just wants to keep Atto all to himself!” He stomped his foot once more, and crossed his arms.

Uncle ‘Russa rolled his snowball closer, so big he could lean onto it. “Oh, Gil! He’s a baby! He doesn’t understand yet. Don’t take it so hard!”

Gil huffed. How could Uncle ‘Russa stand it, having a brother to share everything with? How could Atya stand having six!? And he had to share with all of them! Gil-Galad could hardly stand one.

“Well, why don’t we all finish this snow- _ nér? _ By the looks of this snowball, it’ll be as tall as I am!” Gil’s Atya scooped him up, finally, and Gil burrowed into his father’s shoulder. “Help me roll another snowball, my love.”

They did so. Uncle Curvo brushed snow off his cloak, making an excuse to go inside. Gil-Galad wondered if he’d write back to whoever called him  _ Beloved. _ Ambarussa and Ambarto stacked a slightly smaller ball onto the base, heaving it up with a grunt. Now, even with just a base and a body, the snow- _ nér  _ stood shoulder to shoulder with them both. They shared a silly grin and began gathering stones. Gil-Galad watched them while Atya rolled. Uncle ‘Russa would grab a stone and inspect it, and Uncle ‘Barto would wrinkle his nose and bat it away. After the fifth rock met its end in the cold, Uncle ‘Russa groaned.

“Honestly, brother, just gather stones yourself, then!” A flurry of snow sprayed into the air as his Uncle stomped away. Atya snorted.

“Why must you bother each other so? You haven’t changed since you were babies, that is for sure!”

Gil watched his Uncle ‘Barto smile crookedly, looking very much like Great Grandfather Finwë letting them in on a secret joke. “Hey! We aren’t  _ that  _ young! Why, we’re nearing our majority, for your information, Nelyo!” He bowed his head, kicking a rock around with his toe. “Everyone still treats us like children, anyhow. I suppose, to you all, we really are still babies.”

Before Atya could reply, Gil-Galad joined the conversation. “You’re big to me, Uncle ‘Barto. Big and fun to play with. If I didn’t want to be Atya when I grow up, I’d be you so I could have a friend forever like Uncle ‘Russa, and we’d go have adventures in the woods and come back home to get kisses from Atto.” Honestly, Gil wasn’t all that sure about woodland adventures, but the fantasy was delightful to dream of.

Uncle ‘Barto stared at him, seemingly frozen. “Oh? Well then,” he blinked, crooked smile widening a little bit. “Well then, I’m glad. I suppose. But you know, little Gil-Galad, you do have a companion of your own.”

Atya hoisted him up, adjusting his grip while rolling a snowball larger and larger with one hand. “Tinno will make a great friend one day! He’s very nice, and he loves watching you.”

“I don’t like him.”

His Atya pressed a kiss to his nose, not caring about the mucus around it. “You will. Believe me. There is no firmer friend than a brother.”

Atya let him down, and Gil gathered some snow into a ball, and then, watching his father and Uncle, began to roll it around. He made two, one large and one small, and removed his scarf to wrap around the neck. Uncle ‘Russa came back with beautiful stones, and he placed one with a vein of gold into the chest of his snow- _ nér. _ If Gil knew anything, he knew it was a stone from his Uncles’ collection. Which was strange, since they guarded their finds jealously, but he would not complain.

Hesitantly, Uncle ‘Russa approached uncle ‘Barto, holding a new stone out for him to examine. Ambarto smiled down at it, and placed it in the chest of the snow- _ nér _ they’d made. They laid their foreheads together for a brief moment, and then went back to goofing about together _. _ Gil-Galad watched them.  _ They’re best friends, aren’t they, _ he thought.  _ Will Tinno be  _ my  _ best friend when he’s older? _ He found himself hoping so, because watching his Atya, who was the very oldest brother, play gently with his youngest brothers made something bubble up that made tears pool in the corners of his eyes. He sniffled, and immediately his Atya scooped him up.

“Look! Don’t cry, my beloved little one! We’ve made a veritable army of  _ nérs,  _ and they each need a name. What shall we name these two?” Maitimo pointed out both small lopsided figures Gil-Galad had cobbled together on his own.

Gil wiped at his nose and hiccuped, “That one is me, and the baby one is Tinno.”

Inside they went, finally warming up by a hot fire and sipping a cup of cocoa on Atto’s lap. Atya had Tinno now, and his baby brother seemed just fine. Something tight released in Gil’s chest, something he hadn’t realized had been clenched in the first place. Tinno watched him back, smiling toothlessly and bouncing on their Atya’s lap. Gil let a smile crack, and bounced on Atto’s lap. They bounced, and Tinno laughed as he almost fell right off. Gil blew bubbles into his cup, and Tinno blew bubbles with his spit. Gil made a funny face, and Tinno tried mimicking, only succeeding in sticking out his tongue and raising his brows. Every time Gil-Galad did something, Tinno copied him, and when he said “Say Gil-Galad,” he was rewarded with a slobbery “Dih dah.”

  
  
  


Later that night, they were tucked in bed, Gil in his own bed and Tinno in a bassinet. He waited until the house got quiet, then dragged the bassinet closer to pull Tinno out. He laid Tinno beside him and pressed their foreheads together, falling asleep to the smell of baby brother and warm hands grabbing his sleep shirt.


	2. Cat - Nost Karen Hell

“And upon gilded sky did they break, like waves unto a golden shore. Thus ends the tale of Silverhawk, remembered fondly forevermore.” Irissë closed the book, smiling at Lómion in the twilight. “Did you like the story?”

Lómion blinked out of the daze he’d swam under, lost to the rhythm of his mother’s lilting voice. “I like the part where White Eagle tells Silverhawk to fly towards the horizon. Even though he flies for years and never finds the island, he still trusts White Eagle’s directions.” He thought for a moment, regarding his Amil with golden eyes. “If you were Silverhawk, would you have kept flying?”

Amil shrugged. “I’m not sure. I like to believe in things I can see, but If I were Silverhawk, maybe I’d trust my closest friend too.”

From across their small home, Tyelkormo, Lómion's Atar, wiped his hands of grease. He was making oil, putting olives from far south into a weird machine that squished them. Somehow, Atar would take that mushy paste outside to one of his shops, where Lómion was not allowed, and turn it into oil after hours of working. Lómion wanted to help, but Atar told him the machinery was dangerous to small fingers and hands. One day, when he was as big and strong as his Atar, he’d go into the oil room and help with the presses.

For now, Lómion was content to help with winding the crank on the grindstones. “Atar, can I crank it?”

His Amil rose from the cushion she sat on, peeking into the pot of thick stew bubbling over the stove. Atar hadn’t cared about not having a stove before, but after Lómion burned himself the fourth time, he’s given in a build one himself, with help from Uncle Curvo. It was also great for keeping warm, especially as snow fell in the silvery swirls of glitter at Telperion’s waxing.

“Sure,” Atar said, and waved him over. “What’s that you said about Silverhawk?”

Lómion hurried to the grindstones. Lately, as orders from the temperate south for enchanted olives demanded more oil, his help had been welcomed. Eagerly, he cranked the stones, watching as the window showed him the bottom of the tub. Olive paste was run over and over, and he could see some oil on top. “If you were Silverhawk, from the story, would you have kept flying? Even if you flew for years and years and never saw the golden shores?”

Snow fell harder outside, but their small house was good and strong, like the hands that built it. Tyelkormo held the tub steady while he cranked, thinking hard. “Hm. Maybe. I like to think there’s hope if you look for it hard enough. Even if you have to make it up yourself.” He blinked and shook his head, silver hair swishing into Lómion's face. “Nevermind. Don’t mind me. That sounded more grim than I wanted it to sound. Here, stop the grinder, little one, it’s ready to stir.”

While they scooped oily paste into another tub to stir, Lómion's Amil tugged on her cloak, already dressed in a long coat and heavy boots lined with fur. She left without a word, star chart in hand.

Atar watched her, and then turned to him. “Go watch the stars, little one. I’ll finish up here.”

He did as he was bid, hurrying to the closet that held his coat and boots. Slipping them on, he stumbled to the door, hoping to spot a familiar constellation. His Amil was teaching him about stars in recent weeks, showing him each twinkling speck with a whispered name and a tale or two for each picture Elentári had painted into the heavens. Atar didn’t care much for it, but some nights he sat for long hours anyways, carving, whittling, or crushing plants for pigment, content to be in their company. This night, it seemed that Lómion would get to enjoy both parents’ company himself.

Irissë (he’d given up correcting himself the few times he referred to his mother by her name, knowing that, should he slip up aloud, she’d laugh -- “That’s me!”) was waiting on the fallen bough. Snow was piled up the sides, and the last frozen blooms were springing forth, like they do in winter. He sat down beside her and immediately grabbed for the star chart. “Tell me of the Great Swordsman, Amil! Tell me about  _ this one!” _ He pointed on the chart to  _ Menelmacar. _

His Amil snorted. “Him? Why? You usually don’t care too much about warriors or swordsmen. That’s normally Gil-Galad’s interest, isn’t it? Fantastical heroes and such?”

Lómion shrugged. He knew it was strange. But, he wanted to have a story to tell to his older cousin, and maybe to his baby cousins Mel and Líra. “I want to know.”

She smiled and pointed out the band of three stars, closely tucked in a line. “See those three? That is his belt.”

He squinted, searching where Amil had pointed and spotted them, neatly in a row. “I see them! I see them, Amil!”

“Good! Now, see if you can find four more, one to each corner, creating a box around his belt. That is his body, big and strong like Atar.”

Lómion frowned, concentrating hard. He looked around the belt, straining to identify the stars. There were two very bright ones in opposite corners; one was red, at the Swordsman’s shoulder, and the other seemed white, at his hip. The others, he could barely spot, so mixed they were in the cacophony of lights. “Well, I’ve found two.” He showed her on the star chart, poking the two bright ones. “How did he get all the way up there, Amil?”

His mother brought him close, letting him lay his head on her belly. They stared out into the darkness. No fire was lit on the ground, and they hadn’t brought a lantern, in order to better spectate. Lomíon waited patiently for her to begin, knowing she was either recalling the tale, or making one up.

“Long ago, the Valiant One fought with his hands against Melkor. Melkor was a fallen Vala, causing chaos and evil and unmaking what the Valar created. The son of Astaldo, strongest and most Valiant of the Valar, was Telimektar.”

“Telimektar?” Lómion asked. It was a name he’d never heard before. He hadn’t even known Tulkas had a son!

His Amil nodded and continued, “He was fierce in battle, as his father, and he wore a silver sword on each hip and in both hands. Even in the Void, they say you can see his face shining silver.” She paused for breath, then went on, “The Valiant One beat Melkor down, throwing him upon his face and chaining him, with the help of Telimektar his son. It is said that, in order to watch for further evils wrought by the Dark One and his followers, Telimektar rose up into the heavens and sits upon the firmament with his brothers and sisters, the constellations, and together, they keep watchful eyes upon us.”

He gazed at the blinking stars, observing the Swordsman’s belt. “He has no sword anymore, all the way up there.”

Irissë laughed, joined by a boom of laughter from his Atar as well. He’d come up behind them quietly as she spoke, letting Lómion listen in peace to the tale. Atar sat down with a grunt, wrapped in a fur-lined coat and heavy cloak. A blanket was tossed over his head in lieu of a scarf.

“Melkor is chained, and we are at peace. Even if the Valar forget to keep watch, the stars see all. They’ll fall before they allow the Dark One to prosper again!”

His Amil clicked her tongue in disapproval, smacking Atar’s arm. “Don’t say that! It’s practically  _ blasphemy  _ against Elentári!”

“What’s blasphemy?”

His parents looked at him, then at each other. Amil raised an eyebrow. Atar sighed and pat his knee. “It is saying things that disrespect the Valar.”

“Like saying  _ fuck  _ is a curse word?”

At that, his Atar blinked. Lómion could  _ feel _ his father’s discomfort and confusion. “Where did you learn that, little one?”

Lómion pointed at his Amil. “Amil says it when she’s mad.”

Again, they shared a look, only this time, Amil looked sheepish and Atar looked amused. “Of course she does.” He looked to the sky once more, laying his head against Lómion's knee from his perch on the snowy ground. “The Swordsman is near to the horizon, and soon he will rise further up as his watch nears. We’ll see him in his full glory in a month, I’m sure, and then you might be able to fashion him a proper sword.”

At that, Lómion smiled. Such a comment could only mean that he would go and visit his Grandfather Feanáro’s workshop. It was his forge instruction day tomorrow, after all, and he’d spend two nights there learning the craft he’d already grown to love. Despite Grandfather’s gruffness, he was a gentle and thorough teacher. Lómion's favorite days were in the forge, sweating over his tools, or in the instruction rooms, bent over a book of formulas or metallurgy. Maybe Uncle Nelyo would stop by for an hour of lore, or perhaps Uncle ‘Russa would show him his collection of rare stones!

“I hope so, Atar. One day, even the Valar will hold steel blades with my stamp on them!” he cried, feeling heartened by his parents’ support.

“Evil will know your name and cower, I’m sure,” giggled Amil, “but first, supper.”

Obediently, Lómion rose from his seat and trudged through the snow towards their cottage. Inside, it was toasty warm, and they ate hot meat stew and bread before tucking him in. Atar sat on his bed, covering him with his blanket and wrapping a heavy fur over him. The scent of cold battled with the scent of firewood in his nose, but he smelled also his own father’s scent. Grass and sweat and something wild, something foresty.

“Atar,” he asked, like he did every night, “do you love me?”

His Atar brushed a large, rough hand through his black hair. They were different, he and his father. He was dark haired and olive skinned, where Atar was fair, from the top of his silver head to the bottoms of his ghostly white toes. But, Lómion was always aware of their shared golden eyes, and he rubbed at them. “Do you?”

And, just like every night, Atar placed a hand on his cheek and contemplated what, from his view as a father, must be his son. Did he gaze at him and think about their differences, as Lómion does? Did he ever rub at his suddenly sensitive eyes after thinking too hard about them, golden and fey and strange against the typical blue and grey of the rest of the family? Did he have deliberate thoughts, like  _ This is my son. I am his father, _ the same way Lómion did? What did Atar see when he gazed at him, every night, questioning his love? He didn’t mean to question its existence, only if it was still as strong as it was the night before. It would be horrifying to wake up and find the warm embers they both shared when they looked at one another were gone.

“I love you as much as I did yesterday, and the day before, and every day since I knew you were here.” It was true.

They bandied the same words each night. It was not a test, or a construct of his to catch his father in any sort of failing. His father  _ couldn’t _ fail, he was sure. From oil-making to hunting, to plant gathering, to hiking and building a fire, His Atar was perfect.

Today, thinking of the tale of the Swordsman and his father, the Strongest of the Valar, Lómion changed their ritual.

“When I’m a grown up, I’ll make a sword like Telimektar’s, and I’ll watch over all of Valinorë with the greatest on the stars, too. I’m just like him, I think. My Atar is the strongest, and I want to be just like you and the Swordsman.”

The rough hand smoothed his hair down again, then cupped his chin. “You’ll be greater than them. The stars will bow to you, and even Astaldo will bend his knee before you,” Atar whispered with mischief in his eyes. “But don’t tell Amil I said that, or else my Yule gifts might mysteriously disappear.”

Lómion giggled and snuggled into his bed. “Is that a  _ blasphemy, _ what you said?”

He got only a crooked smile in return.

With their inside joke sealed tightly between them like olives squished in a press, Atar rose and blew out the candle, letting Telperion light his room. “Tomorrow, we visit Grandfather Nolofinwë and Grandmother Anairë for a celebration, and the day after, we'll visit with Grandfather Fëanáro and Grandmother Nerdanel to open gifts. But tonight, we sleep, and dream of heros."

"Goodnight, Atar."

"Goodnight, Lómion." With a soft shuffle, Atar pulled the curtain closed, separating Lómion's bed from the rest of the tiny room he called his own.

Lómion shut his eyes and dreamed of a tall, broad shouldered and dark haired  _ nér, _ wielding a silver sword in each hand and fighting beside his silver haired father, the strongest in all Arda.


	3. Meech - Nost Telglor

It was a day like any other day. There was golden light swirling like glitter through her curtains. Snow was falling outside, but inside, it was warm and toasty. Her blankets were still neat from her night of sleeping, and Muffin the Bear was still beside her. Her toes were warm, her nose wasn’t runny, and her sister--

\--was crying.

So much for starting the day off perfectly.

Líra blinked open her eyes, squinting across the room to where her baby sister’s crib stood, covered with a thin linen blanket. From her bed, she could see the fabric being pushed out in tiny bumps as Mel tried to escape. For some reason, Atto called her cries  _ sweet, _ but they were actually just annoying. Soft, like kitten, but going on and on until someone came to pick her up. And they happened at any hour of the night, dragging Atya or Atto into the nursery to rock her back to sleep. It was ridiculous! Líra couldn’t sleep a wink some nights, and she didn’t even get any attention for her trouble of allowing Mel to share the nursery with her!

Tiny bumps kept bumping the blanket out, but it didn’t fall, so Mel cried and cried some more. Líra slid out of bed, trying not to disturb her blankets so she wouldn’t have to make her bed later, and padded towards the crib. She lifted the blanket and peered inside, spotting Mel’s curly head and red cheeks. She was still trying to push the blanket, but when she spotted Líra, she raised her hands towards her.

“Wa,” she hiccuped. “Wa.”

“Hi Meh.” Líra wrinkled her nose at the epithet given to her by this annoying baby. “Be tuiet, Meh.” Her commands didn’t work, as usual, and for some reason, Atto and Atya had not come to get her. Not yet big enough to open the door of the nursery and leave, Líra was as trapped as Mel.

“Sh, Meh. Too noud.” But Mel kicked her feet out and wailed louder anyway. Tears rolled down her cheek, landing on the sheets and soaking into dark circles. But if Líra had a cup to fill with how much she cared about her sister’s tears, it’d stay empty. Instead, she yanked the blanket off and threw to the side. Mel’s cries waned a bit, still reaching for her. Líra felt unreasonably mean all of a sudden, and she backed away from her sister’s arms. “‘Tupid Meh, I tan’t pit you up anyway.” Mel cried a bit more, wanting her to stay close.

Bored of her baby sister, Líra padded to her toybox, pulling out another bear and a pillow. She dragged them to Mel’s crib, tossing them inside. Then, she grabbed another stuffed animal, and a ragdoll Auntie Vanárwië sewed for her, and threw them in too. The heavy doll landed on Mel’s face, and she mewled helplessly, pushing at it. More toys made their way into the crib, and soon Líra could only see Mel’s face because it was pressed against the bars of her crib, watery eyes watching her miserably.

That’s how her daddies found them a minute later, with Mel still crying, buried under a pile of toys, and Líra glaring at her from her bed.

Atto gasped and rushed forwards, pulling out the pile of toys in one sweep and cradling baby Mel in his arms. “Líra! That’s not nice at all! You might have suffocated Mel!”

Líra just turned around, crossing her arms and yelling, “She’s dumb!”

A comment she regretted, because Atya’s shadow loomed over her just before she was scooped up and stood on the ground, two frowning daddies scolding her.

“Numellotë Lírafinwë, this is  _ not _ okay. It’s not cute, or silly, or nice at all, do you understand me?” Atya knelt in front of her, trying to catch her eye. She craned her neck side to side, trying to keep him from looking at her face, and eventually he held her shoulders gently but firmly. She closed her eyes in response. “Líra, look at my eyes.”

“No!” she screamed.

“Why?” Atya asked. She hated that question. She always felt like she had to answer, or else he’d be confused forever and ever.

“Betause!”

“Okay… is it because you’re mad at me?” He stopped trying to turn her face to him, and she relaxed a bit. “Are you mad at me, darling?”

Mad? She was furious! “Yes! I mad!” She was mad at Atya for asking if she wanted a baby sibling and mad at Atto for being round and having a baby. “I mad at you!”

Atto rocked Mel on his hip, letting her play with his long hair. Mel  _ always _ got to play with Atto’s hair! But Líra didn’t anymore, Atto said she yanked it too hard!

“Tel, I’m going to go feed Mel.”

Atya nodded, not looking away from her. Not that she knew that, since she was staring at the wall and totally ignoring her daddies. Definitely. “Okay, my dear. We’ll be down in a minute.”

Atto left, and suddenly Líra felt tears spring into her eyes. Atto was nicer, sweeter than Atya, who was always telling her to  _ stop behaving this way _ or that  _ she was no longer a baby. _ Both of those were true, but when it came to Mel… Líra couldn’t stand it. She tried to keep the tears in, but they fell anyways. Atya wiped them with his sleeve.

“You’re mad at me? Well, what happened, then? We haven’t seen each other yet. What could have happened while we were getting dressed?”

Líra sniffed, but did not look at him. “I hate Meh.”

She felt Atya get tighter, then droop like he was made out of a rag like her dolly. Or like a plant that Atto tried to look after without asking Atya about it. “Maybe you feel that way, but I promise you that you don’t hate Mel, Líra. She’s your sister, and you nearly hurt her this morning. Did you know that?”

Sniffling again, she thought of her ragdoll hitting Mel’s soft face, and how she had cried and tried to push it away. “No,” she lied.

Atya sat on his bottom and she copied him without knowing why she did, and it felt better to talk to him like this. “Are you sure? You sound like maybe you did know, and you kept hurting her anyway.”

The accusation felt ugly. Líra cried harder, wailing and wanting to get a hug so Atya could forget about it, or maybe get picked up and rocked on his hip. Atto said she was still a baby and could get rocked, but Atya said she can’t get rocked when she was bad. And she was  _ definitely _ acting bad right now.

“I want a hud,” she whimpered. Maybe it’ll work this time.

“Hugs are for when we are being comforted, when we are happy, or when we are sad. Right now, you’re showing me very naughty behavior, so until we can talk about hurting baby Mel this morning, hugs must wait.”

She couldn’t help it! Líra wailed, crying for Atto to come rescue her. She cried for Atto and his smooth black hair, or for Uncle Finno who always gave her hugs and scolded Atya and Atto for making her cry. She wailed for Grandmother Quimellë, Atya’s Amil, who would scoop her up and kiss her tears away. She wanted Grandmother Nerdanel to glare at her daddies for making her cry, or even for grouchy Uncle Curvo to carry her away to read under a tree in the garden. Nothing happened, though. No one came bursting into the room to carry her away. She cried and cried, reaching for Atya but not scooting closer. And he sat in front of her, face kind of squished like her’s, and she hiccuped to a halt.

Atya looked kind of like he wanted to cry too.

“Atya?” she whimpered. “No twy, Atya. I twy, not you.” She pat his leg.

Atya shook his head. “I’m not crying, Líra. But I am sad that you’re sad. However, I already said that you need to explain yourself before we can hug and join Atto for breakfast.” He watched her, and Líra realized she was looking at him now. She almost turned her face away with a frown, but she liked her Atya’s face.

“Meh was, Meh was twying too noud,” she hiccuped, wiping at her face with her nightgown’s sleeve. “Meh dot a hud, but I want a hud too.” Atya waited for her to say more, so she did. “I want Atto an’ you, but, but, but you, but you, you don’t div me, ah, ah, attenden.”

Her Atya asked her, “Attention? You want more attention?” She nodded. “Líra, are you jealous of Mel?” She didn’t know what  _ jealous  _ was, but she nodded. “Oh Líra, my baby girl.”

Líra looked up at that. Baby girl? That’s her!  _ She’s _ baby girl! She crawled into his lap, even thought she was supposed to be waiting for a hug until she stopped misbehaving. Atya cradled her anyway, and she felt her chest get smaller. More tears fell out of her eyes.

“Aiya, Líra. Little Líra. You’re growing so fast that I keep forgetting you’re my baby. We ought to have figured you’re jealous, huh?” Finally, Atya rocked her in his arms, kissing her hair and whispering, “When we get jealous, that means we want the same things someone else has. Lots of big sisters feel that way, but harming our baby sisters is not okay. What you did was very dangerous, Líra.”

Líra buried herself deeper into his clothes. He smelled like an Atya, fresh and clean with that tiny smell of dirt, like he might have wiped a little bit on his shirt. Maybe if she pushed harder, she could sink right into him, like Mel had been inside Atto before she was born. Then she could hide in the safety of him, and never come out again.

Atya didn’t let her. He pushed her back, looking into her eyes. “Did you hear me, Lírafinwë? You will stop hurting your baby sister this instant, even when you’re upset. Remember what we said about using our words.” She nodded, feeling properly chastised.

“I wiw. I pomise.”

That earned her another hug and a smooch right on her nose, even covered in mucus as it was. Líra giggled and wrapped her arms around her Atya, feeling much better.

“Come now, let’s join Atto and baby Mel for breakfast.”

Oh no. She still didn’t want to be near Mel. Not at  _ all. _ Líra shook her head insistently, but Atya was already carrying her out of the nursery and down the hallway and down the stairs to the kitchen, and she was nervous about what Atto would say or if Mel would be mad at her and what if  _ everyone _ was visiting for breakfast--

"Wa!"

It was just Atto and Mel. Atto was sitting in his chair next to Mel, feeding spoonfuls of mushy porridge into her mouth while crunching a slice of toast. Mel, for her part, waved eagerly at Líra, happy to see her as if she hadn't just spent all morning trapping her in toys.

"Wa!"

"Good morning, love. Líra. I trust we're all ready for today and we each have our manners ready to use?" Atto spooned more sweet-smelling porridge into Mel's babbling mouth.

With a final kiss, Atya set her down in her own highchair, and in the next moment she had her own bowl of porridge. There were blueberries in a smiley on top, and she smashed them in, as was her usual morning ritual. "I weady to be nice. I nice an' sweet."

Atto cooed at Mel, and Líra felt the  _ jealousy _ start to bubble, but Atya pat her head and moved away to the pantry. Pulling out some flour, sugar, and the very special chocolate pieces that she wasn't allowed to touch, he called out,

"After breakfast, I think I need a big strong Líra to wash up and help Atto with his cookies this year!" He set down the chocolate pieces and slipped some into her porridge. "Since you're my beautiful big girl, now, right?"

Líra repeated the name in her head, then out loud. "Booniful bid dirl?" It sounded just fine, maybe even better than Baby Girl. Mel can have  _ that _ old name. Líra had a new one! "Booniful bid dirl! Dats me!"

"That's right, darling. My beautiful big girl. Now eat your food."

Delighted, Líra snatched up her spoon again and gobbled up her blue porridge, hoping to finish early enough to ask Atya to comb and braid her curls. As much as she loved Atto, Atya was just better at brushing her hair.

And if Mel got into trouble for rubbing porridge on Atto's cheek, well...

Líra kept her sneaky smug laugh a secret.


End file.
